Whether by mischance or design, Darien had come thus far, and he would not depart empty-handed. With no other recourse, he followed the coachman into Brindlemark, where fair-haired folk with azure eyes regarded him with wary curiosity.
He cast his gaze about. Save for a few spires, the settlement bore little mark of grandeur, no different from a common village.
The coachman drew the carriage to a halt, sprang down, and dropped to one knee before Darien.
"Hang on… what are you doing?"
"M'lord, the step is high. Pray, allow me to help you, lest you stumble."
Darien regarded the coachman warily, unused to such courtesy, with a polite refusal, gave a light hop to the ground—
Squelch!
His boot sank into a foul, yellow muck, and the stench hit him at once.
The coachman exhaled in relief that Darien had not slipped, though his surprise at the filth was plain.
Darien, with a weary sigh, sought a cleaner patch and scraped at his boots, muttering reluctantly:
"Surely… this is Brindlemark?"
The famed barony of the Thryngard Mountains—yet filth ran through its streets, and the stench was most foul.
Where were the towering walls?
The bustling marketplaces?
All he beheld were a few meager stalls and a low ridge of dirt.
Was it him—or had the world itself grown crooked?
He drew a long breath, fingers pressed to his head.
"Aye, m'lord, this be Brindlemark, the finest town in all the Thryngard Mountains, under Baron Charles' rule."
The coachman spoke with pride, unaware of the turmoil in Darien's mind.
Just then, a ragged troop of children approached, bowls held out, their hollow cheeks and worn garments speaking of hunger and hardship.
The coachman hurried to shield Darien. "Away, ye knaves! Show respect, and soil not this gentleman with thy muck!"
Darien lifted a hand, halting him.
"Wait."
The coachman froze, uncertain.
Darien stepped forward, kneeling before a small boy, whose grimy face and wary eyes spoke of hunger and hardship. With a gentle smile, he ruffled the child's hair. "Are you hungry?"
The boy nodded faintly, clutching his empty bowl tighter.
Darien rose and approached the nearest bread stall. He pointed to a tray of dark, coarse loaves. "What are these?"
"Ah, m'lord! Rye loaves, plain fare for common folk," the trembling vendor replied. "Nay the soft white bread of nobles—these be coarse and hearty."
Darien picked one up. Hard, misshapen, crusty—inedible by noble standards—but he offered it to the children.
"Here," he said, giving it to the boy. "Share it with thy friends."
The boy stared in disbelief before slowly accepting it, hands shaking.
The vendor's own hands quivered. "M'lord… wilt thou buy them?"
Darien drew a small leather purse, untied it, and counted out coins. "How much for the lot?"
"Two coppers each, milord… twenty if ye take all," the vendor stammered.
Darien tossed over thirty. "Keep the change."
The vendor gaped. So did Aelfric. Silence held them both.
As Darien distributed the remaining loaves to the children, each bowed in gratitude.
"Thank you, kind sir!"
"Bless you, noble lord!"
"Thank you!"
The children scattered, chattering with joy, as if they had been gifted gold instead of humble bread.
Aelfric stood frozen, mouth still agape.
Darien waved a hand, then turned to the coachman. "Well, Aelfric—show me the rest of Brindlemark, will ye?"
"By your word, m'lord," the coachman replied, a newfound respect in his stride, perhaps even a spark of admiration.
As they pressed onward, Aelfric gestured toward a two-story gray wooden building. "M'lord, here stands the grandest inn in all Brindlemark. For a noble such as thyself, naught but the finest service awaits. Whatever thou desirest, 'twill be done."
Darien, accustomed to overstatement, ignored the "grandest" automatically.
Suddenly, the thunder of hooves rang out. A masked knight, gleaming in polished armor, rode past a carriage, flanked by attendants bearing swords.
"Those are the Baron's own guards! None in Brindlemark bear finer steel or mightier arms!" Aelfric said eagerly. "Word was he sought a fearsome Argoth bear for the baroness… yet no beast appears. Perchance the hunt failed, or the woods kept their prize."
As the carriage vanished yonder, leaving a smear of mire in its wake, Darien's gaze followed it—but he felt little awe.
Less than ten guards in all, a paltry force indeed. His concern lay elsewhere: finding lodgings for the night.
"That's it for now, Aelfric. Thanks. I've nothing much to offer, but…"
"No, 'tis fine, my lord! 'Twas my honor," Aelfric said, attempting a noble air, though his bright eyes betrayed hope for some reward.
Darien reached into his pack and drew forth a small, golden-brown biscotto, the sweet aroma of almonds rising from it.
He handed it to Aelfric.
"But instead, I give you this. It hails from my homeland. 'Tis called a biscuit—a simple foodstuff. One of these may keep a man fed a day… so long as he labours not too hard. I think you might well need it."
Aelfric did not know the word "biscuit," but he understood food.
That a single piece could stave off hunger for an entire day made his eyes shine. In this world, where food was scarce, such a thing could rival gold in value.
Carefully, he wrapped the fragrant biscuit in cloth. Though his stomach growled, he did not eat it.
This was noble food. If traded wisely, it might buy a home in Brindlemark and secure a better life for his kin.
He bade Darien farewell with visible reluctance—not solely for the reward.
This was the kindest noble he had ever met. For once, someone saw him not as a tool, not as vermin—but nearly as an equal.
No arrogance, no scorn. For a fleeting moment, Aelfric felt human.
He knew it was a fleeting fantasy. Nobles and commoners were different creatures.
Yet still—he would remember.
Darien waved farewell and strode toward the largest inn in Brindlemark.
---
🔍 Did you know?
- In medieval Europe, rye bread was considered the "poor man's bread," while the wealthy ate fine white wheat bread. Your social class could often be guessed just by the kind of bread you ate!
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